


Of Useful Artistry

by spinel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, First Times, Gigolas Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinel/pseuds/spinel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reflection of a Dwarf is in his craft, and even an Elf can understand that. A Legolas/Gimli get-together snippet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Useful Artistry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first day of [Gigolas Week](http://gigolasweek.tumblr.com/) for the prompt 'First Times'. A prompt which I shamefully adapted to suit my ridiculous purpose of getting a better handle on the voices of those two.

"You mean to say that these are artifices for beauty?" Legolas stares, fascinated, at the powders ground up in the metal pots, meticulously arranged near a multitude of things he has not encountered before. Long, hollow needles, thin and pistoned paintbrushes, and other metal stuff besides. "I thought you a miner, mellon nín."

Gimli's eyes glint. He opens his mouth, no doubt to soundly correct Legolas' assumptions (he has had to do that quite regularly, to Legolas' dismay), before closing it shut with a huff. "There was little enough time," he says, his gruff voice at odd with a gentle hand on Legolas' arm. It is a silent apology, for Gimli has realised, since their arrival at Erebor, that there is much he has neglected to properly explain to Legolas. Legolas does not begrudge him, for they have considerably spoken during the past year, but it is only truth that many of their trials have involved more of weapons and enemies than words.

"It is of no importance," he says, making to walk closer to the workbench, but he hears Gimli inhale sharply beside him and large hands find themselves at his hips, turning him towards the stout Dwarf whose beard now seems to be bristling.

"It is very much of importance, you daft Elf. Sit! There are things..." he pauses, which is uncharacteristic for him, and Legolas feels something seize in his chest. "Stop, I can see your worrying! It is not to do with you." Gimli sighs as he guides Legolas to the padded stool near the workbench and takes the other. His hands have tightened into fists, and Legolas can feel himself reaching out to try and soothe him. He forcefully aborts the motion. He would do well to sit on his treacherous hands! It is clear Gimli is a hero to his people, as well he should be: everywhere they have been grandly received, for Gimli's tale of the Quest seems to have mellowed Dwarven-Elvish relations. Legolas can see the admiration in the eyes of most Dwarves, how they follow Gimli without almost a thought. That they fulfill his requests swiftly and with an almost painful eagerness, in the desire for Gimli to _see_ them.

In that, he is very much like all these Dwarves himself. But what is one Elf ( _too tall, too pale, and beardless_ ) in the face of an entire mountain full of worthy Dwarves? They have bridged great differences, but none are greater than the natural calling of a heart.

A _click!_ near his eyes makes him jerk back to attention. "I do not like when you go and I cannot follow," mutters Gimli, his snapping fingers now fidgeting with the pots on the wooden bench.

Legolas bites his tongue, for there is naught to say when 'that will never happen' is a lie. "Tell me then," he prompts, gesturing to the workbench, and is amazed by Gimli's reaction. "Do you blush, mellon nín?"

"Sometimes, what comes out of your mouth..."Gimli grunts and shakes his head, as if grounding himself. "You have known me as a warrior, Legolas. Which I am, have no doubts about it! But my calling is not found in  steel and battle, even with my skill in them." He takes a breath, seemingly bracing himself. "I am what you would call a beauty maker." His nose scrunches and he lets out a soft curse in Khuzdul. "Ach, it sounds ridiculous when said in Common! Before the Quest I never was without a sheaf of paper and a bit of graphite, for drawing in anticipation of making is the first step of my craft. I can then either produce my drawings myself, or supervise them being made."

Legolas frowns. "So you are an artist."

"Not quite," Gimli says, frowning as well. "From what I understand, your artists will... Well. They will not make anything useful."

To that, Legolas laughs merrily and can only ask what Gimli produces. Instead of answering, the Dwarf moves to a corner of the intricately carved wall and pivots a section of it, revealing a clean cache with a multitude of shelves, the entire cabinet smoothly carved into the dark rock. Heavy books line some of the shelves, and Gimli chooses the one closest to him and brings it over to the workbench. Even when closed, Legolas can see that its pages do not line up properly, with some being thicker than others, while others are yellowed or creased. The leather binding is thick and utilitarian, and there is an intricate clasp holding the stuffed tome together.

"Well then," Gimli gestures to the book. "Your eyes may see for themselves."

Legolas approaches the workbench with trepidation, lays both his hands on the leather hardback, and is taken aback at its softness. It is a rich, dark brown colour, but the grain of the leather has been softened and carefully polished, and the stitching running around it matches the gold of the clasp. "This is a saddle stitch!" Legolas cries, and his eyes almost cross as he lifts the book up to his nose and inspects the careful seaming. "Whoever bound his for you is very skilled, my friend. Why, the thread is even coated with beeswax to prevent rotting!"

"First off, laddie, there is no such thing as a 'saddle stitch'. Why must you and Eomer persist in associating every existing thing with horses, blasted creatures that they are? Dwarves call this stitching 'unravelling stitch', for even if one side is damaged the leather will not fall apart. And I thank you for the compliment."

Legolas lowers the heavy tome slowly to the workbench. He takes in the smoothed leather, the gold thread and gold and silver clasp encrusted with tiny crystals, and slowly looks up at Gimli. "You made this," he states.

"I see you are still fond of stating the obvious," Gimli grumbles.

The leather under Legolas' hands is smooth as he undoes the clasp and is quietly awed at the ingenious mechanism behind it. Instead of opening the tome, he separates the clasp again and lets out a delighted laugh at seeing it snap back together. "How did you get the two pieces to stick together?"

"Have you never encountered that?" Gimli seems surprised.

"There is not much call for Silvan Elves to deal with metal, apart from jewelled finery and traditional riches." Legolas is not bitter that Rivendell and Lothlórien would likely have the knowledge he lacks, but he is again reminded that the isolationism of Eryn Lasgalen has not served his people particularly well.

"It is a property of iron, iron ores, and certain other metals. If there is a Common word for it, it escapes me. My apologies, Legolas! I can only say that I have found it useful, especially in exerting enough force to keep those bloody blueprints collared."

"I can see that," Legolas answers in a faint voice as he finally cracks the book open. The pages are disparate, but that is because this did not start as a book. It is instead a compilation of detailed drawings, from vaulted ceilings with mathematical symbols written under every curve to intricate webbing inscribed with runes and flowers. There are also simpler shapes, things such as vases or glasses, along with more ornate chandeliers. With surprise, Legolas recognises the drawing as the light fixtures hanging from the carved ceilings in the antechamber of the Royal Hall of Erebor. The vaulted arches in the book he has seen in the quarters of Gimli's relatives, and the pots sitting on the workbench are smaller versions of jar drawings he has just paged through. "These are on your father's knuckles," he murmurs, fingers lingering on the edge of a page, towards the end of the tome.

"Yes," Gimli says. "I drafted them before I left, and promised I would ink them on my return."

"A worthy promise to keep." Legolas leafs through the next pages carefully. The designs are becoming less and less geometric, with more sweeping lines, and with pages seemingly having been crumpled and unfolded back to smoothness multiple times. Many of the sketches are elongated, solid and dotted curved lines reminiscent of the trajectory of a bird in flight, or the new growth of a sapling. They are rougher than previous work, as if the artist is unsure of where the next stroke will lead. They are also not done with a thin, sharp graphite tip but instead use a thicker, slanted edge to the drawing tool. They increase in complexity as Legolas progresses towards the end of the volume: from shape and curve studies, Legolas now sees illustrations of carved hair beads and hair grips, until the last page, snug against the leather of the binding, is a schematic of the clasp he has just been enchanted with.

He carefully flips to the beginning of the volume, then back to the last schematic. Closing the tome, he looks to Gimli and asks to see some of his earlier work. Something very large is swelling in his chest.

"Your sharp eyes miss nothing." Gimli sighs and slumps on his stool, large fingers covering his face. "Help yourself."

Legolas picks a thinner book at the back of the highest shelf, and another located closer to the front of the stone cabinet. He needs only to bring them closer to the light on the workbench to be able to contrast the angled and sharp Dwarvish clasps with the style of the tome he has just rifled through. He sets them back where he had pulled them from, opens the volume he so carefully closed, and navigates to some of the sweeping line studies towards the end. Gimli has yet to move from his stool, but now his eyes are fixed on Legolas, and they are both apprehensive and angry.

Legolas is not looking at the drawings when he says, "I would have you make what you draw for me."

Gimli blushes violently. "Why you… You cannot just… " He is still sputtering when he reaches towards Legolas. "I should not have shown you this," he snarls, "I should not have kept these at all!"

"No!" Legolas clutches the tome to his chest, breathing hard, eyes narrowed and what seems like twine in his throat. "This is no passing fancy, Gimli, you stubborn Dwarf! Do you think I would be here, nigh on a month, if it were not for love of you?"

"We speak of different things," Gimli dismisses, his eyes empty.

"We do not. For is it not you who said to me that a Dwarf's work is dearer to them than aught else, and that their craft is their love? And now here I finally have proof!"

"What more proof do you need, when I invited you to a Mountain full of Dwarves?" Gimli yells.

"Do not speak to me of proof when I _accepted_ ," Legolas says icily.

Gimli bristles but then slumps back onto his stool. "It is of no use," he says, a defeatist note in his voice. "For what could a Dwarf offer an Elven prince?"

He is still staring at his hands when Legolas kneels to the ground and clasps his own palms around Gimli's. "You must mean, 'what could a fading Elf give to a heroic and coveted Dwarf-lord'," he whispers, leaning in so that their foreheads touch.

Gimli's large hands unwittingly cover his own and squeeze tightly. "You daft Elf, do not speak to me of heroics. I still see that Oliphaunt in my nightmares! Is your need for the Sea growing stronger? I would drive it as far away as I could." He pauses, and his next words are so low they but resonate in Legolas' marrow. "I would fight all that would sunder me from you."

"Do not doubt I would fight it too. But I would not remove you from your people, Gimli," Legolas says urgently, "I would have remained silent if it were not for what you have now shown me. For what does my love bring you but barrenness and toil? You can have no heirs, nor a sturdy mate to rule a new realm with you."

"You foolish, foolish creature," Gimli says, hands carefully cradling Legolas' head. "Are you telling me you are not a sturdy mate? Because I would beg to differ. And it is not for you to decide whether you remove me from my people: the Pelennor fields saw my heart remove me from them rather decisively. For it is a custom of my people," Gimli continues, "to love but one and only once. So you see," he nodded to tome Legolas had abandoned on the workbench, "this sort of thing will continue to happen whether you acknowledge it or not."

Legolas sighs and closes his eyes, head resting more heavily into Gimli's palms. "Your customs are strange to me," he murmurs, "and yet my heart is lighter now than it has been since hearing the gulls."

"I would have your love, Legolas, as you have mine, for it unburdens both of us." Gimli's voice is solemn and Legolas feels the beginning of a smile stretch on his face, the likes of which he has not encountered since the end of their Quest.

"It does rather more than that, you pragmatic Dwarf!" And when he looks into Gimli's eyes he finds them dancing. His arms come up to embrace Gimli's massive shoulders, and he slots his face into the nook between neck and shoulder, nose buried in the copper plait hanging along Gimli's spine. "I would have my illustrations now that I can rightfully request them," he mumbles.

He can feel Gimli's frame shake with laughter and a large hand slowly cradle his head. "You must have recognised the designs," Gimli says, and to that Legolas nods. "It is but a fleeting desire of mine. I would not see your skin permanently marred with Dwarvish ink."

"You could very well paint them on. Do not think me unobservant, Gimli. I saw paintbrushes on your cluttered workbench!"

"Elven sight is, as always, a boon," Gimli says drily. His hands come around Legolas' shoulders and he pushes him an arms' length away. "Would you truly consent to wearing them?" He asks, quiet.

"I would be honoured to bear your mark, even if you insist it washes away." Legolas's eyes do not leave Gimli's as he makes his proclamation, and the blush returns to Gimli's cheeks in full force.

"I do insist," Gimli mutters as he turns away, bustling with some water from a leather skin and a tiny pestle and mortar. Legolas' heart feels too big for his chest as Gimli prepares the staining paste, and he is trembling with excitement when Gimli asks him to choose the sketch he prefers. In response, Legolas undoes the lacings of his shirt, removes it, and sits back on his stool, facing the wall.

It takes a long moment for Gimli to recover. "You did not answer my question," he says, peevish, as he works behind Legolas on the bench, positioning brushes and pots.

"I thought I'd let Dwarvish innovation surprise me," Legolas replies innocently.

"Dwarvish innovation would like a warning next time," Gimli grunts, and Legolas shivers at the first touch of a brush. That one is very thin and pointed but remains soft, and swoops and arcs across his shoulders and around his arms. He needs not be told to remain still. It takes much concentration for immobility to win over innate (and ticklish!) reflexes, and Gimli is silent as he works, alternating between thin and thick brushes and, towards the end, a metal implement which makes Legolas huff soundlessly and his arms break out in goose flesh. "Serves you right," Gimli chuckles. "Now to wait for the paint to dry, and we can reveal the pattern."

Legolas cranes his neck backwards as Gimli adds some logs to the fire in the corner, and only nods when Gimli's hands come up to his head to gather his hair up and away for him to sit back safely against the hearth.

"It will make the paint dry quicker," Gimli says, and bats Legolas' hand away from his upper arm absently. "Do not pick at it, âzyungel. Only a few more minutes."

Legolas does not ask about Gimli's term of endearment. For it was an endearment, no mistake about it. But there is time later, after the paint on his back has finished cracking and he has both made and secured more assurances of devotion.

Gimli inspects Legolas' shoulders a scant time later, and comes again armed with a clean, oily rag. He wipes it in smooth, large circles, dissolving the dried layer of paint, and humming thoughtfully as his work is revealed.

Legolas has never known so hungry an anticipation before. "Gimli, meleth nín," he pleads, "I would see your work!"

"And you will," Gimli says as he leads him to a curtained wall. One tug of a tasselled rope and the curtain parts, revealing three floor-length, twinned mirrors, and Legolas sees himself, slightly disheveled, rose-tinted flush spread down his cheeks and across his chest.

Gimli matches him, with the exception of his plait remaining down and his shirt still being on.

"Stop staring at our discordant image, Legolas, and look into the mirror to see the reflection of your back," Gimli orders, and it is a good thing Legolas has learned to hear what is necessary. For he ignores the outrageous demand and walks up to Gimli to better drag him to the mirrors, stand by his side and ask if they are truly discordant.

"It is what people will say," Gimli despairs. "Who has ever heard of an Elf and a Dwarf? Friendship, aye, but more than that? Why would the Fair Folk grace the Unwanted?"

"Ignoring the ignominy of what you just uttered, would you not rather say," Legolas asks, calm hanging by a thread, "that we are complementary? For you make my existence a continuity of newness. Not only in the reciprocity of my love, but in the customs of your people. I have not known one such as you, Gimli son of Glóin, in all my years. And for knowing you now, my existence is made richer. It is made newer, a gift to those of us who have lived through all, only to relive it."          

Gimli sighs. "I am sorry, Legolas. What you said is true for me also, and it is such that we may go till the end and still have not discovered all there is to each other."

"There is time for that yet," Legolas says with levity, as he attempts to mask his reaction to the the terrifying thought of death so close to his love. He does not think himself successful, but Gimli does not beleaguer his point as he spins Legolas around to see his painted pattern, and Legolas finds he has neither words nor breath left in him.

For the sweeping and intricate lines covering his shoulders are fine and light grey, nothing like the blunt black Dwarvish tattoos sported by Gimli. They follow his narrow muscles, curling around shoulder blades and biceps, surrounded by tiny dotted flowers. His upper back is like a seedling flowering in spring.

"Now that I have your first mark, I would have a first kiss," Legolas says, breathless, whirling around towards Gimli.

"And I would finally have some useful, constructive criticism from you," Gimli complains as he pulls Legolas's face down to him and raises up on his toes. "It is a good thing we are accumulating firsts," he whispers, right before their lips meet.  


End file.
